


Girl from U.N.C.L.E.

by carnivorous_sloth



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:13:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorous_sloth/pseuds/carnivorous_sloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are U.N.C.L.E.'s newest recruit.</p>
<p>Your first mission? Win a bet.<br/>Sounds easy enough, but can you really make Illya smile?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mission 1: The Bet

You aren't entirely sure of what frustrates you most- Illya's stoicism or Napoleon's sleek banter. Either extreme makes you nervous, honestly, because the two men are incredibly difficult to read.

You've been getting better at it, though. Hell, you've made it into a game now.

Gaby and Waverly have even placed bets. They gave you three weeks. If you can make Ilya smile, or, god forbid it, laugh, you'll be upgraded from rookie agent. No longer will you be stuck in the sidelines as moral support.

If you can get Napoleon to act seriously pissed off, or force him to be genuine, it's the same deal.

Plus, a couple hundred dollars and bragging rights.

The thought of it excites you, but you need to focus on one of them if you're gonna succeed.

Choosing either spy seems almost as difficult as completing your task, honestly. It's like asking a person to choose between their right or left arm. Either way you're gonna lose.

You stare pensively at the ceiling, trying to decide. Sleek or Blunt? Tall dark and handsome or really tall blonde and equally handsome?

Finally, you sigh and nod. You'll take your chances with Ilya.

***

Trying to conjure up a strategy, you walk towards the living room.

Your posture is determined. Illya will like you, Damn it.

However, your bravado disappears as soon as you approach him.

Has he always been this big?

He is playing chess by himself, and though his attention seems to be solely focused on the pieces, you have no doubt that he knows you are here.

"Waverly assigned you as my mentor," you announce, a little too loudly.

His hand hovers over a pawn for a few moments.

His blue eyes are still focused on the game, but you detect a slight hint of annoyance.

"I'm not a babysitter," he tells you, evenly.

His accent and enunciation make the words sound vaguely threatening.

"Well, good, 'cause I'm not a baby." You cringe at your reply. Is this really happening? Did you just say that?

"What I mean is, well, I don't need a babysitter. Besides," you try to appeal to the weird competitive rivalry he has going on with Napoleon "he said it was either you or Solo, and, I mean, Solo is a great spy but... I don't know if he'd be a good teacher."

He stops tapping his fingers against his thigh and leans back. "You will not get in my way."

You glare. "Whoa, there. I'm inexperienced, not incompetent." There are a lot of things you can accept, but being treated as a moron really does get on your nerves.

He doesn't deign your outburst with a reply, instead returning his attention back to the game.

Too late, you realize how difficult your task is truly going to be.

***

The phone besides your bed rings and you pick it up groggily. Napoleon's smooth, mocking voice fills your ears. You try not to cringe. "So you chose Peril? I'm offended. You don't think I can be genuine?" You can almost see the man's face twisting into a pout. Then he laughs. "I'm in on it, by the way. Five hundred dollars says you can't."

"Whatever, Solo, just be ready to pay up." You try to sound more confident than you feel, but you are not sure that you are fooling anybody.

"I don't make bets I can't win," he warns. Then, without further ado, he hangs up.

God, now you really have to win.

***

Your attempts at making Illya laugh have been futile so far. Your time is almost up and the only thing you've accomplished is to have him stare at you strangely. He probably thinks you're insane, or something.

Not that you blame him.

With each passing day, your attempts at comedy have become more ridiculously manic.

First there was a knock-knock joke. Illya was quite upset at that, because he told you spies don't knock. It defeats the point of stealth.

Then there were the funny pictures. You'd found a stash of them, and you really did think they were pretty cute. Illya seemed repulsed by them, and asked you to get rid of the photos.

A little desperate, you decided to go all out. You asked Illya to help you pick a dress for a formal event. He expressionlessly agreed without too much whining from your part, which you interpreted as a growing fondness for you. Or pity at your lack of style.

When the time came, you grabbed the worst outfit you came across. It was this horrible asymmetrical... thing. It had feathers and fur and sequins. Basically, it looked like the leftovers of all other clothes in the boutique had been sown together to create it, and was so completely ugly that it bordered on aesthetically offensive. It also made you look completely ridiculous .

Trying not to burst out laughing, you sauntered outside.

"How do I look?" You twirled around for him, watching for a reaction through the mirror.

His blue eyes widened. This was as expressive as he had ever been with you. It would have been great, except for the fact that he seemed completely and utterly horrified. It was almost as bad as if you had just confessed that you were a double agent and also an avid fascist supporter.

"What is... that thing?"

"It's... a dress... I think." Probably. You really couldn't be too sure.

"It looks hideous," he said unblinkingly, gesturing for an attendant to approach. Even though you agreed, hearing Illya say it upset you. All bets aside, you really wanted Ilya to like you. You had really come to admire him during the grueling training sessions he had been subjecting you to.

You crossed your arms across your chest, feeling uncomfortable. "I know it's ugly... it was supposed to be a joke." Your wounded ego made your voice sound a bit too high-pitched for your liking.

Illya's expression didn't really change much, but you had been working at reading his emotions for a long time. The slight quirk of his eyebrow probably meant he was uncertain. He turned away before you could continue your analysis.

He grabbed a few things from the arms of the assistant. "Here, try this," a statuesque dress, "with this," the most beautiful shoes you ever had laid your eyes upon, "and...." His gaze searched a small table of accessories until finally, his eyes rested on top of it. A beautiful stone necklace. The jewels were a blue that reminded you of him. "This."

Wordlessly, you grabbed everything and got changed.

You immediately knew you would probably never feel so perfect ever again. Especially after you showed Illya.

His face softened, and his lips curved infinitesimally upwards when he saw you.

You were so excited about the way he had looked at you that you forgot.

By the time you were ready, it was too late.

***

Which brings you back to now. Here you are, at the event...regretting the second part of your plan. You were so desperate to win the bet... you really didn't think things through.

You glance at Illya, impeccably dressed in a tailored gray suit that contours his lovely shoulders wonderfully, from the corner of your eye. How are you supposed to fix this?

Before you can arrange your thoughts into something coherent, Napoleon saunters towards you. "Y/N, you look beautiful," he notes.

"Uh-huh."

Illya seems somewhat uncomfortable now, plastered to a wall. His fingers tap against his thigh over and over and over again.

"You seem distracted," Solo continues, undeterred by your lack of enthusiasm. "Upset by losing the bet?"

You turn your head towards him quickly. If only he knew... you're upset because you're about to win it. You put enough drugs in Illya's food to make sure he doesn't stop laughing until the night is over. It's only a matter of time. "I'm sorry Solo, I'm not feeling well...." by the time you finish your sentence, you're already halfway across the room, heading towards your mentor.

He seems surprised by the way you're speed-walking. "Illya, I'm not feeling well. Could you please take me home?" Instead of waiting for an answer, you begin pulling him towards the exit.

You notice Gaby and Napoleon's raised eyebrows as you singlehandedly drag the man, who literally towers over you, away.

"You should slow down."

Obviously, he does not share your sense of urgency.  
Not knowing how much time you have before it happens, you look for an alternative. You can't just parade Illya around the streets when he does start laughing.

You spot an empty room, push him inside and lock the door.

"What are you doing?" he asks, with thinly veiled annoyance in his voice.

His accent sounds thicker than usual.

You rummage through your mind in search of other options. How can you force him to stay inside of the room without telling him the truth?

You can't.

Sighing in defeat, you slump your shoulders and begin to explain. "Okay, Illya, you know how I'm stuck as a rookie? When I joined the agency, I did so expecting to be treated like a professional. But instead they treat me as if I can't tell the trigger from the grip of a gun, okay? So I made a bet with Gaby, Waverly and Napoleon..."

By now, Ilya is sitting down, staring intently at you, as you nervously pace the room.

"Anyways, the bet was that if I could make you laugh, I'd be upgraded to a full agent..." And get some money on the side. You think it's best I'd you don't mention the money. "But you are so serious all the time. So... I might have...well.... I might have drugged your food earlier just in case."

His nostrils flare, and he stands up. He glares angrily at you, all the while tapping his fingers against his leg. You can almost hear the damned sound.

"You drugged me to win a bet?"

The tapping stops. He grabs the small coffee table in front of him and then throws it.

You feel the urge to cry, and suddenly it just happens. Giant, ugly tears just start spilling from your eyes. You're disgusted at the lengths you were willing to go to in order to win. "I'm so sorry... I...I couldn't in the end, because you're so nice, and I love training...and..."

This seems to stop him in his tracks.

He approaches slowly, and then pats your shoulder awkwardly.

You suspect he isn't used to dealing with crying women.

"I'm so sorry," you say, just for good measure.

And then, something hits you.

He isn't laughing. You stop crying and gaze at him suspiciously. "You're very quiet," you tell him.

He stands still. "Yes."

"But I gave you the food."

Illya shifts gaze weight from one foot to the other. "I did not eat it. It was...not good."

Somehow, you get the feeling that he's trying to be polite. This surprises you, since Ilya is not once to mince his words, but you assume he is simply attempting to avoid more tears.

Still, you're annoyed. You put in a lot of work and effort, because you had wanted to make sure Illya would at least enjoy the meal.

"You didn't like the cake I made?"

"The inside was raw and the outside was burnt," he deadpans, shuddering at the memory.

"Oh my god.... you are horrible. I slaved over it for hours! I was almost late getting ready!"

And then, it happens. He doesn't laugh, not really. He doesn't even make a sound. But he gives you the most beautifully genuine smile you have ever seen in your life.

"You drugged me," he reminds you.

The whole situation seems to amuse him somewhat, almost as if he finds it difficult to believe that you would be brave enough to spike his food.

At the end of the night, you call the contest off and don't tell anyone that you definitely won the bet, because you don't want them to know. You feel unreasonably possessive. Illya smiled, but that smile was meant for your eyes only.

You don't even mind that you end up losing a thousand dollars, because, cheesy as it sounds, it was worth every penny.

And, best of all, you are still being mentored by Illya.


	2. Mission 2: The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first official mission was a success.
> 
> Will celebrating lead to something unexpected?

"...And then I shot him," you finish, cheerfully, recalling your first official mission. Napoleon laughs at your enthusiasm, and then takes another sip of his drink.

Besides you, Illya stiffens. "You could have hit me," he tells you, yet again. He seems awfully upset by the fact that you aimed so close to his head. You bite your tongue. There's no use in pointing out that it was his fault you ended up in a confrontation.

"Hey, I'm a good shot. Besides, I've seen you move. You are so fast, Illya; I couldn't even if I tried."

It is hard not to sound too appreciative. The way that he moves is so fluid, and precise, and quick. Even when he is just sitting besides you in the dimly lit bar, you are sure he is definitely ready for anything.

Napoleon catches you gawking and gives you a smirk. Before, you would have felt anxious and charmed, both in equal measures. Solo has a way of making all women, and some men, you suspect, lose their wits. But after spending so much time together while working, you no longer feel flustered.

Plus, you admit grudgingly to yourself, you find your mentor so much more attractive. It's the Russian accent, probably.

Or maybe the height? You've always liked tall guys, after all.

Belatedly, you realize you are doing it again.

"Uhm, Solo, you're buying the drinks!" You announce, loudly, praying that this will divert his attention enough to prevent him from teasing you too much.

"Of course," he answers, "but if I am buying your drinks, that means we are on a date, no?"

You cough out the whiskey you'd been sipping on in a rather unladylike way.

"...excuse me?"

"Well, it's only natural that..."

Illya, who has been silent during this entire exchange, stands up suddenly. "I am going back to my room," he says. You are not really surprised by his seemingly random decision- it took you a lot of begging, pleading, and eventually threatening, to get him to accompany you. But, still, it upsets you to see him go.

"But, Illya, if you leave me here, then it will really be a date with Solo," you don't have to try too hard to sound appalled.

Napoleon places his hand on your lower back. "First you reject me in your bet, and now here?" You would think he is hurt by your antics, but there's a glint in his blue eyes that reminds you of a cat toying with his food. He only does that when he's teasing Illya. Leaning in closer, he whispers, "I genuinely think you could have won if I had been your mentor."

"Solo," you warn, angrily. "If you don't remove your hands off of me right at this moment, I will break into your room and saw them off while you're asleep."

The corners of Illya's mouth lift up in amusement at your threat. "We are leaving now, cowboy," he decides, and offers his hand to help you up.

You grab it gladly, and reach for your wallet. However, he has already put down a bill and is leading you away. His strides are so long that you struggle slightly to keep up, but you are much too excited to really give a damn.

You glance back at Napoleon once, right before you are out of the hotel bar, and he mumbles something like 'you're welcome.'

Blushing, you try to focus on what is currently going on. Illya still hasn't stopped holding your hand, so you are being somewhat dragged by him. You are way too excited to care.

"So, uh, you paid for my drinks..." you note, smiling a bit. "Are we on a date then?"

He doesn't reply, but you can see his profile turning slightly red at your inquiry.

"That's how it works, right?" you brave on, emboldened by the alcohol you drank earlier.

By now, you have walked past the bright, elegantly decorated lobby and towards the small elevator.

He steps inside first, finally letting you go, and leaning against the wall. He looks down at you, expressionlessly, as you stumble in after him. Now that you think about it, those shots are really starting to get to you.

"Damn it, peril," you tell him, jabbing your finger into his muscled shoulder accusingly. You use Solo's nickname in an attempt to grab his attention, "you are soooooo confusing." You mimic his serious appearance and begin speaking in a Russian accent, imitating him. "Da, come here, Noh, go away. Noh, stay; but leave. But don't go to cowboy. That's what you sound like!"

The elevator rings, announcing your arrival to the twelfth floor. Neither of you move. "Well, you know vat, I mean, what? You bought me those drinks, so we are on a date, and I am going to ki...."

You don't finish your sentence, because Illya leans forward and shuts you up with a kiss.


	3. Mission 3: The Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your date ends in a surprising way, and you're forced to make a promise!  
> (That you don't really mind keeping.)

You wake up to a horrible, pounding pain shooting through your head, and the desperate feeling of wanting to throw up everything you might have eaten the night before. Or ever.  
You stumble up clumsily, tripping over your feet in a rush to get to the bathroom, and then proceed to projectile vomit, exorcist-style.  
Classy.

Finally, after you are done, you glance up and stare in the mirror as snippets of last night float through your head.

You were with Solo and Illya, celebrating. There were so many shots. God, you must have drank almost two bottles of whiskey by yourself….And then what? 

Your face is still half-covered with make-up, and there are mascara stains over your cheeks.  
An image of Illya in the elevator appears in your mind’s eye. 

You two left the hotel’s bar together.

You grimace in horror as realization hits you. You mocked his accent. And you were calling him peril. And you tried to kiss him. Oh, no. You tried to kiss him. With whiskey breath.  
You don’t know what you find more humiliating- the idea of acting drunk in front of your mentor, or the idea of making a move on your mentor while your breath reeks of hard liquor. 

But…he kissed you back, right? You rack your brain, but the details are slightly blurry.  
After brushing your teeth and washing your face, you walk back into the room.

And then you see.

Him. Just…there. In your bed.

Illya. He is lying. In the bed. Where you were also sleeping.

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

You blink at him stupidly. Did you guys…? Why can’t you remember? His blue eyes are trained on your horrified face. 

Finally, you find your voice. “Yeah, I’m…I’m good. Great…Awesome.” Damn it, he looks beautiful, even in the morning. His hair is sleep-tousled and there is a hint of stubble over his jaw that you could just….  
Yet, here you are standing makeup-less and befuddled.  
You idly wonder if there is a delicate way of asking for details. What is the etiquette for saying “I don’t remember anything after I tried to shove my tongue down your throat last night”?  
“So, about yesterday…” you venture, “…uh… I…”

He smiles at you. Every time he does this, it takes you by surprise, since he does it sparsely, but always genuinely.  
“You were very drunk,” he assures you, sitting up.  
You’ve never seen Illya without a shirt before, but you are definitely glad that you’re sober enough to commit every single detail of the image to memory.  
-Chords of muscles, tan, smooth skin… you do your best not to swoon.

“Yes, I was,” you acknowledge, prying your eyes away from his broad shoulders. Suddenly, you become extremely aware of what you are wearing. Or not wearing, more importantly. Like, your pants. Why are you not wearing any pants?  
You begin inching backwards, searching desperately for something to cover yourself with. “Uh, Illya, do you know where the rest of my clothes are?”

He reaches towards the drawer on his side of the bed, and then places your neatly folded jeans and jacket close to you.  
“You said the room was too warm, and….” 

“And I started undressing,” you recall, mortified.  
Feeling completely ashamed by your actions, your shoulders slump in defeat as memory after embarrassing memory resurface.

***

Illya leaned forward and kissed you, almost violently. 

Now, in your sober state, you suspect it might have been a distraction tactic, or something. You were acting like a moron yesterday. 

At the time, though, you took advantage of the situation and reciprocated gladly.  
Your fingers dug into his brown suede jacket, crinkling the material, as his arms encircled your waist.

Then, just as eagerly as you had kissed him, you slapped Illya angrily and jumped away.  
“No, no, no. We are on a date, come.” 

You dragged him out of the elevator and towards your room in an impressive display of brute strength. Even he had seemed flabbergasted by the way you managed to manhandle him. 

“I should leave,” he told you, but you ignored his protests and motioned for him to sit on the sofa while taking out a vodka bottle from the mini-fridge.

He ignored your instructions.

“You can’t, comrade, a date’s for two.”

“That’s enough, then,” he reached out and took the alcohol from you, much to your drunken chagrin.

With an agility that defied your…state, you pounced on Illya, yelling. “Bad! Durnój!”

He made a few half-hearted attempts to fend you off, but gave up after you scratched his neck like some sort of rabid cat. You’re pretty sure you even drew some blood. 

“I’m leaving,” he repeated, amused and terrified in equal measures.

When the bottle was back in your hands, you cradled it in triumph, took a swig, and placed it back down, before reaching towards a gun you’d hidden underneath the coffee table.  
“No, damn it. If you leave, I’ll shoot you. I’m a good shot, you saw.”

And that’s how you ended up together. 

***

“Y/N,” Illya says, interrupting the overwhelming sense of horror that is making you hyperventilate.  
You threatened him with a gun, for god’s sake. With a gun.  
You threatened Illya Kuryakin With. A. Gun. 

You jump at the sound of your name, and avoid looking directly at him.  
“Yes?”

“Do not ever drink when I’m not there,” he warns, “You get very…crazy.”

You nod enthusiastically in agreement, vowing to never again touch alcohol. Period.


	4. Mission 4: The Promotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've just been promoted from rookie.
> 
> What will your first mission as a Real Spy entail?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter, but I will be posting another one soon!

Your eyes are glued to the cement floor as you follow Ilya, Napoleon, and Gaby down the narrow hallway. The walls are all dull grey and the place is cold. Coupled with the flickering fluorescent lighting, you can’t help but feel…unsettled by the creepy atmosphere.  
To make matters worse, you are very anxious, because you haven’t spoken with Ilya properly ever since the… drunken incident.  
It’s not as if there haven’t been any chances, really. Rather, every time an opportunity does come up, your heart rate accelerates so much that talking is out of the question. And, well, you have found it extremely difficult to look at Ilya straight in the eye ever since you two kissed.

As you contemplate your stupidity, Gaby’s confident pace slows down to match your own. She gives you a worried glance, quirking an elegant eyebrow at you questioningly. “Everything okay?”

“Yep.” There is something sisterly about her attitude that makes it difficult for you to lie to her. You suppose that being two of the only women working as agents has bonded you over the past few weeks.

“You’ve been acting strangely, ever since the day you went out for drinks with Napoleon and Ilya…” she murmurs, quietly enough that neither of your two companions can overhear.

“Hmm…” you decide to neither deny nor agree.

“You didn’t…. _sleep_ with Napoleon, did you?” her tone seems somewhat horrified at the thought.

Gaby’s suggestion makes you trip. Both Napoleon and Ilya turn to see the source of the commotion, but you wave away their concern without ever raising your eyes. “O-of course not!” you reply, once they are ahead again.

“Well… _did you and Ilya_ …?” Now, she appears to be amused.

“N-n-no…I just….” Your gaze strays towards the back of Ilya’s neck. There’s still red marks, from where you scratched him.  
You blush.  
He seems very nonchalant, focused on getting to Waverly’s office. Still…talking about what happened with him nearby makes you feel sick. “Well...do you think I can explain later?” you mutter, meaningfully.

Maybe you just need to go over things with a female. 

Gaby has worked with Ilya before; they even had a brief fling, from what you have heard. Speaking to her about everything should help. 

_Right?_

***  
Waverly is sitting down at the head of a metallic table. He is holding multiple files in his hands, and smoking. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? They’ve put me in the set of a horror movie- I request a confidential meeting spot, and this is what I get?”  
His complaint is aimed at no one in particular, though you have to agree. You know that the usual building is going through some renovations, but you weren’t expecting such a downgrade.  
“Now, since you’re all gathered here, I will make it official. Y/N, congratulations. You have graduated and will be working on a mission as a full-fledged agent…”  
You don’t really hear the rest of Waverly’s words, since your ears are ringing. You are a Real Spy now. A. Real. Spy. You’re on the same level as Gaby and Napoleon, and even Ilya. Oh god. Oh god. Oh…  
“…understood?” Waverly’s expectant inquiry makes you jump slightly.

“YES, SIR!” You yelp, a little too loudly. 

As you glance around, you notice Gaby looking like she’s about to burst out laughing. Napoleon smirking -which really isn’t a big deal, since that’s basically Napoleon’s go-to expression- and Ilya. tapping his fingers against his leg.  
You want to ask what exactly you just agreed to, but since it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a Real Spy would ask, you decide to go over your file after the meeting.

When the debriefing is done, you practically skip out of the office. 

Gaby catches up to you halfway down the hallway. “Y/N. We’re going for coffee…” She gazes back for a moment, and you notice Ilya and Napoleon getting into some sort of heated argument. “Before those two get started.”  
You want to intervene, but, honestly, you’ve seen them fighting before. Napoleon taunts and taunts and taunts and Ilya bulldozes over everything and anything in his vicinity. It’s not worth it.

“Yeah, let’s hurry before they see us.” Together, you head to a coffee place in the city centre. 

***

The café is small, and mostly empty.  
You pick a cozy table in the back and set everything down, still smiling.  
“I am so happy, I think I might barf…that’s normal, right?”

Your friend laughs. “Very. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way. Waverly must be impressed if he’s already sending you undercover like that.”

You begin choking on your coffee. “Wha-Uh…I mean, excuse me?”

“You didn’t hear anything after ‘full-fledged agent’, did you?” Gaby inquires suspiciously, narrowing her brown eyes.

Your face turns red. “Well…I wouldn’t say I _didn’t_ hear…. I just…you know… was quite surprised and…”

She huffs. “No wonder you sounded so happy.” Then her small lips curl up in amusement. “And Ilya… I’ve never seen him react like that. He actually frowned a little bit. He _frowned!_ ”

“Gaby…what…what exactly did I agree to? You’re smiling weirdly and it’s scaring me.”

“Not much. Just…” her voice lowers until it is almost inaudible, “… to pose as the wife of an American diplomat attending a summit in Switzerland.”

“But Ilya will never pass as American, I mean, have you heard him spe--…” Before you finish your thought, it dawns on you. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she says, leaning back and sipping on her espresso contentedly. 

“No…”

“Yup.”

“ _No_ ,” you repeat, faintly. 

In the end, you are so distraught by the thought of your newest mission that you don’t even get to talk to Gaby about your drunken incident.

Resigned, you begin steeling yourself for the arduous task of faking a relationship with Napoleon Solo.


	5. Mission 5: The Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Ilya are finally speaking again, but...  
> For how long?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter! But that should change once everyone arrives to Switzerland.

Back at the hotel, you have just finished reading your assignment papers.   
You are not too bothered by the spying part, honestly. You’ve been training very hard for a long time, and after shadowing Ilya, you’re more than confident in your field skills.   
It’s the ‘pretending to be married to Napoleon’ part that worries you.

It’s not like he will do anything too inappropriate; after all, he is a professional. But, still, spending a prolonged period of time with him will mean getting teased mercilessly. 

Sighing, you lean your head back against the sofa and close your eyes for a moment. Deep breath in, deep breath out…Just as you are starting to feel relaxed, there comes a knock from the door.

Annoyed, you drag your feet to the door and swing it open, glaring. However, your irritation quickly turns to embarrassment when you see Ilya in front of you. Or, more accurately, you see his broad chest, since you still can’t bring yourself to make eye-contact.  
Oh god. You are not mentally prepared to interact with him. What are you even supposed to say? Do you invite him in? Do you make him stay outside?  
“Howdy!” you yelp, in a high-pitched voice. Then you mentally kick yourself. _Howdy? Really?_

“May I come in?” he asks, dragging your focus away from your internal turmoil.

“Yeah! Sure! Go in!” Every single word coming out of your mouth sounds like an exclamation. How do you make it stop?

He ignores your social ineptitude and strolls in confidently, sitting on the couch. His gaze roams over the file you just finished reading, and then his mouth curves downwards slightly.   
Damn him, he has great lips. And he’s really good at kissing, from what you can remember. Though, to be fair, after the amount of alcohol you drank that night, you would have thought a blobfish was a good kisser as well. 

“I was just going over the mission, I wasn’t thinking anything weird or anything!” _Smooth._ He’ll never suspect you now.

“I don’t think you are ready; this mission is too dangerous and…” he begins, calmly.

At his words, your awkwardness turns into anger. _“Excuse me?”_

Now, it is his turn to avoid your glare. He is still staring at your identity card. “I spoke with Waverly, and I will be going as back-up.”

You are really, really mad at his announcement. Granted, you aren’t at his level yet- that sort of thing comes from experience. But you _are_ capable, and the fact that he doesn’t trust you, even after he mentored you, is infuriating. “Ilya, what the hell?” 

And you were even thinking he had nice lips before! You take that back.   
“I am a _spy!_ Of course the job is dangerous. If I wanted safety, I wouldn’t have signed up for this. _You can’t just barge in and do whatever you want, you massive, pig-headed, lumbering_ \---“

Before you can finish your barrage of insults, there is yet another knocking sound.

You stomp forward, throw the door open even more forcefully than before, and scowl at the man in front of you.   
Great. Now you have to deal with Napoleon too.  
“What?”

“Is this a bad time?” Napoleon asks, though he probably can tell it is a terrible time. He stares at Ilya quizzically, his ever-present smile not faltering for a moment.

“What do you need, Solo?” you repeat, tightly.

“Since we will be leaving tomorrow, I thought I should probably take you shopping. Your style does not suit my wife’s. But, if I am interrupting…” he steps back. 

“Wait! You’re right,” you call. “Give me a minute to get ready.”   
Right now, you don’t think you can speak with Ilya without slapping him. For the first time ever, spending time with Napoleon sounds like the more appealing choice. 

“Alright,” he tells you.

Ilya stands, and for a second, you think he is going to reach out and apologize. Instead, he walks out of your hotel room almost as quickly as he came in.  
Fighting the urge to violently throw everything around or cry, you grab your purse and a jacket. 

You will figure things out with him some other time. Until then… treating yourself to very expensive things sounds like a great coping strategy.


	6. Mission 6: The Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flight with Napoleon, a new city, and a meeting with Ilya.
> 
> Will you be able to reconcile?

The flight to Bern is incredibly stressful. Napoleon manages to keep bumping into you, despite the fact that your seats are definitely spacey enough, since you’re going first-class.  
The constant physical contact has you on edge, since you are painfully aware of how stupidly, ridiculously handsome Solo actually is. 

If only he never opened his mouth…

“...What would you like, darling?” he asks, as his cobalt-blue eyes skim over the drink menu.  
The flight attendant waiting for your order swoons a bit. You’re pretty sure she has been spending an inordinate amount of time helping you out. You are also certain that her level of service has nothing to do with her commitment to the job and everything to do with Napoleon’s charming smile.  
Honestly, you don’t blame her.

“Just water, please,” you mumble, ignoring his overtly familiar tone. 

Once the woman is gone, Napoleon takes a sip from his wine thoughtfully. “Just water?”

You recall your promise to Ilya, and hope the unflattering airplane lightning is enough to cover your blush. “Yup. Just water. I’ve sworn off of alcohol.”

He gives you a sneer, as if he can read your mind. “Is there a reason for that? I’m sure Peril would be very disappointed.” 

You almost spit out your drink. “What do you mean? Did Ilya say anything? Because it isn’t true!” 

“He didn’t; you’ve just told me everything I needed to know,” Solo quips. His smirk widens. “Besides, I’d have to be blind not to notice those red scratches. You have some weird fetishes. Very…violent.”

Your face feels like it is about to catch on fire. “Shut up, Solo. I will shoot you. I swear to god...”

“Don’t worry, Y/N. As your husband, I promise I will do my best to fulfill your needs.”

Since you can’t come up with a witty response, you settle for the next best thing.  
“I hate you.” 

For the rest of the trip, you do your best to ignore Napoleon. All the while, you cannot help but feel like he is still making fun of you.

 

***  
Once you exit the airport, you see a familiar figure waiting for you.

Napoleon’s hand, placed lightly on your waist, tightens slightly, and your confident steps falter.  
“Is everything alright?” he asks, as he continues to drag you forward without breaking his stride. 

“Yes, of course,” you say, mostly to yourself. This is not the time or the place to get nervous, or act immaturely. 

Your mission has begun. Just be professional.  
Ignore Ilya’s probing gaze, or the fact that he looks exceptionally attractive when he is wearing all black.  
This is made infinitely easier by the fact that you are still angry at him.

Belatedly, you realize there is another man standing besides Ilya. He is shorter, lankier, and overall less impressive. He steps forward in front of you and Napoleon.  
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Greene,” he greets, using your cover names. “…My name is Ryan. This is Pyotr. We will be working as part of your security detail while in the city.”

You feign surprise, digging your hands into Napoleon’s forearm a little more roughly than necessary. You hope it hurts. “Security detail? Is the city unsafe?” 

Ryan gives you a reassuring smile. “Of course not, Mrs. Greene, this is mostly for the reassurance of our guests during the convention, as well as for translation purposes.”  
Almost as an afterthought, he glances at Ilya pityingly. “Pyotr here isn’t…well…he isn’t very bright and doesn’t seem to speak an ounce of anything other than Russian, but you can rely on me.”

You try not to burst out laughing, especially when you notice Ilya’s eyes. He looks ready to strangle the obliviously upbeat Ryan.  
“Thank you so much,” you gush, as a vindictive idea forms in your mind. “Could you please tell Pyotr here to help my husband with the luggage? We are both very tired from the flight.”

After some unnecessary translating, Ilya is left carrying all of the bags.

Suddenly, your first Real Spy mission starts to seem like it will be a lot of fun.

***

The fun only lasts about thirty seconds, though. By the time you have arrived to the hotel, you are left with only a hollow pit in your stomach and an overwhelming sense of guilt.  
Dejectedly, you examine your surroundings.  
Your room is divided into two sections. Both of them are extravagantly decorated and very beautiful, except for one small thing. 

There is only a single bed.

You decide to ignore that fact for the time being. Right now, you are too busy feeling bad about how you spoke to Ilya earlier.

“Oh god, I’m so glad we finally got here. Ryan is nice and everything, but he talks too much,” you comment, absentmindedly, hoping it will be enough to distract yourself.  
Aside from bodyguard and translator, Ryan decided to take on the role of chauffeur, tourist guide, and history teacher. He went on and on about everything and anything you drove past. By the end of the short drive, you were ready to take extreme measures in order to silence him.

Even Napoleon, who is usually unflappable, was visibly relieved when you finally had the opportunity to check in. “I almost feel bad for Peril. _Almost_.”

As if summoned by your conversation, someone knocks on the door. When Napoleon ushers Ilya in, you can’t really say you are surprised.  
“Pyotr…Should you really be here? What if somebody saw you?” you ask innocently, trying to quell your guilt. Maybe if you tease him he will suddenly forget you were acting like a moron earlier? That usually works for Napoleon…

He glares. The gesture makes your strained smile slip. “I was not followed,” he tells you, rather roughly. 

“Alright.” The atmosphere is tense, and despite your half-hearted efforts to ignore it, it’s getting to you.  
You still haven’t apologized for calling Ilya names  
Paired with the way you made him carry your bags earlier, you get the sense that he isn’t exactly thrilled with you  
You open your mouth to say sorry, but the memory of Ilya telling you you weren’t ready for the mission makes you set your jaw stubbornly. 

“Well, this is such a heart-warming meeting and all, but what do you need, Peril? My wife and I are going to bed soon,” Solo purrs, finally breaking the silence.

If Ilya had looked upset before…Well, now he is just about five seconds away from pouncing on Napoleon. You’re glad that he is no longer focusing his accusing gaze on you. However, you are pretty sure Ilya would win, if it came to –yet another- fist-fight. He is about four inches taller and stupidly strong, after all.

Even though you wouldn't necessarily mind seeing Ilya on top of Napoleon, ready to kill him, you know Waverly would complain about the paperwork. Exhaling in disappointment, you intervene. “Your wife would rather sleep on the couch, thank you very much.” Then, turning to Ilya, you bow your head “And I'm….” the words catch in your throat. “You know, I’m…”  
Ilya is waiting for you to finish speaking, and Napoleon is just staring in amusement at your inability to formulate coherent sentences. “What I mean is that I was…uh…”  
God…Ilya probably thinks you are an idiot now. “ _I’m sorry about earlier…_ ” you mutter, quietly enough that it is difficult to hear.

Even so, Ilya’s expression softens infinitesimally. “That’s alright.”  
His acknowledgment makes your shoulders relax.  
Then, more sternly, he adds “Take the bed. I will keep watch while you sleep; I don’t trust Cowboy.”

Napoleon's mocking smirk melts away. "That's not necessary," he protests.

Both of you ignore him. "Thank you! Good night."

"Y/N, you are just being ridiculous," he insists.  
Napoleon's offended complaints continue for a while, but you are too relieved about having sort of made up with Ilya to really care.


End file.
